Disclaimer: The characters of Sherlock do not belong to me. I'm borrowing them for a very short period of time.
Note: It's been a very long time since I've put pen to paper, or keystroke to Microsoft word… Please forgive all errors.
This was the result of procrastination and being up late one night, I didn't have the brainpower to fix anything.
Mr. Holmes, if it was the end of the world, if this was the very last night, would you have dinner with me? - Irene Adler 'A Scandal in Belgravia'
"Have you ever been with a man?"
The woman formally known as Irene Adler smirked at her dinner companion, fork poised halfway to her pretty young thing opposite
her with long lashes over blue eyes and dark wavy hair looked curious and slightly awkward.
"There was one man but…"
"But what?"
"He wouldn't have dinner with me."
There was a moment of silence as Irene ate and the woman opposite her shuffled in her chair with discomfort. Finally the former Miss Adler
put down her utensils and sighed.
"Alice, there seems to be something you're not comfortable with."
Irene was aware that these dates never met her expectations. Replacing one pair of blue eyes with another never seemed to fill that void.
The young awkward ones let her pretend for a while, they were socially inexperienced and completely uncomfortable with their own sexuality.
The former dominatrix got some level of satisfaction from the encounters as fleeting as they were.
Sherlock had been an intellectual equal. She was a lesbian, she wasn't meant to desire a man. And yet when she went to bed with a lover it
was him she saw when she closed her eyes, his voice, his hands.
There was something between them that defied logic. It had almost happened when he had saved her, the moment, the closeness. But once
against a missed opportunity leaving them with nothing more than quickened pulses and fingers caressing wrists.
And then he had died. Unable to return to London she had scoured the papers and watched the news, sat on John's blog for days. Moriarty had
won and she couldn't quite believe it. Surely there was a plan, Sherlock was a genius. Days turned to weeks and weeks into months and still
Sherlock stayed dead.
So she would go to dinner with beautiful brunettes with piercing blue eyes and at the end of the night as they fell into bed Irene Adler would
close her eyes and make believe that she had just had dinner with Sherlock Holmes. After all she catered to the whims of the pathetic, even if
it happened to be herself.
The End
